


I hope you know CPR, cause you take my breath away

by elegantwings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Altered States, Brief Description of Injuries, Car Accidents, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Painkillers, but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: “Hey,” a voice whisper-shouts into Geralt’s ear. “My hand’s asleep.” The voice is accompanied by a little wiggle under Geralt’s cheek, and he realizes he’s been drooling all over Jaskier’s fingers. He sits up quickly and his neck cracks from the strange angle. His head spins, trying to remember what happened in the last few hours, and he kind of just wants to close his eyes again.He’s wide awake a second later when he registers the fluorescent lights and the sound of monitors. Another second passes while his brain catches up and provides him with the memory of the accident up until he’d fallen asleep in Jaskier’s room. He has no idea what time it is, and there’s no window, and when he pulls his phone out of his pocket, it’s still off. “Fuck,” he mutters, and looks up and right into Jaskier’s concerned blue eyes.***Geralt waits for his husband to wake up in the hospital after a car crash.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 283





	I hope you know CPR, cause you take my breath away

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of fluff to carry us on.

Geralt’s been sitting in a surprisingly comfortable hospital chair, talking to worried friends and family for two hours, when he turns his phone off completely. Ciri would say something like, he literally can’t anymore, and he only has the energy left to sit by Jaskier’s bed and will him to wake up. He does feel a twinge of guilt for shutting out Ciri and Yennefer as well, but Yennefer is the one who told him to turn off his phone. 

Jaskier is the one who talks to people. Jaskier knows how to communicate in full sentences with ease, and he can do it in multiple languages if the situation calls for it. If Geralt had been the one who had gotten hurt, Jaskier would have demanded to ride with him in the ambulance instead of staying behind at the scene while the cops took statements. And even though Jaskier had put on a brave face, he’d been so pale, with blood and tears streaked across his face. 

He’s still pale, against white sheets, with a handful of monitors beeping steadily beside him. He’s asleep for the moment, relaxed, and his face is clean. There’s a neat little row of stitches above his left eyebrow, and Geralt is reminded suddenly of the time Ciri, still a toddler, had slipped and caught her forehead on the corner of a coffee table. It had bled and bled, but after a few stitches it was like nothing had ever happened. 

It was Jaskier’s coffee table, actually, in the last apartment he had before moving in with Geralt. The three of them had fallen asleep watching a movie, and she’d woken up looking for her stuffed hedgehog, and tried to pick it up off the ground herself. Geralt had woken up to her piercing scream, and no sound had ever scared him more until today. The coffee table’s long gone now, and Ciri has a faded scar hidden in her hairline, and Geralt is certain that one day this will also be a terrible memory and nothing more. 

It doesn’t really help him to think that way, but that’s something Jaskier would say. Every moment’s just a moment, if it’s not okay it’s not the end, and he’d make it sound convincing and genuine. Geralt can only sit with his arms crossed over his chest, too afraid to even look at Jaskier for too long. Every so often a nurse has come by to adjust something or other, to check that everything looked okay. Shortly after he shoves his silent phone as deep into his pocket as possible, the doctor stops in. 

“He’s going to be sleeping for a little while,” Dr. Merigold says, and she doesn’t try to touch him comfortingly, just speaks in a pleasant, even voice. “He might be a little out of it when he wakes up, and he should try and keep still as much as possible. He won’t be in too much pain just yet, and the less he moves for the first twenty-four hours the better. And don’t be afraid if he doesn’t remember much about the last couple of days, that’s very normal. It should all come back quickly.” She explains a little bit more that there’s broken ribs, and impressive bruising from the seat belt, and no sign of head trauma. The last one makes Geralt release a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding for so long. 

Dr. Merigold asks if he has any questions, and when he grunts in the negative, she looks at him shrewdly. “If the EMTs didn’t check you out already at the scene, you should consider getting it done before you leave. It will be a while yet before Mr. Pankratz is ready to go anywhere.” 

Geralt imagines Jaskier’s skin grows a little paler at the sound of his surname. “Jaskier,” he says to the doctor, “Call him that or he’ll have a crisis.” 

Dr. Merigold smiles. “Very nice deflection, Mr. Rivia.” He tries not to look caught, but she doesn’t scold him or push. “Please let one of the nurses know if you need anything.” 

Alone again, Geralt feels the exhaustion of the day settling in. In truth, he’d refused the EMTs at the scene and now there’s nothing that could convince him to leave Jaskier’s side. He’s sure he’s fine, bruised maybe, but none of the blood on his shirt is his own, he’d already checked himself over. 

For a moment, he considers climbing into the bed next to Jaskier, but there’s no way two men of their size could fit, and Geralt’s afraid any undo movement might risk hurting Jaskier further. It’s definitely safe though, to take Jaskier’s hand and hold it. Jaskier reflexively holds back, and Geralt rests his head on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes. 

***

“Hey,” a voice whisper-shouts into Geralt’s ear. “My hand’s asleep.” The voice is accompanied by a little wiggle under Geralt’s cheek, and he realizes he’s been drooling all over Jaskier’s fingers. He sits up quickly and his neck cracks from the strange angle. His head spins, trying to remember what happened in the last few hours, and he kind of just wants to close his eyes again. 

He’s wide awake a second later when he registers the fluorescent lights and the sound of monitors. Another second passes while his brain catches up and provides him with the memory of the accident up until he’d fallen asleep in Jaskier’s room. He has no idea what time it is, and there’s no window, and when he pulls his phone out of his pocket, it’s still off. “Fuck,” he mutters, and looks up and right into Jaskier’s concerned blue eyes. 

“Are you all right, love?” he asks, and although his words are a little bit slurred, he looks worried. 

Geralt huffs and takes Jaskier’s hand again, gently wiping the drool away with the corner of one of the sheets. “Am I alright? You’re the one in the hospital bed, Jaskier.” He can’t resist pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s temple. 

Jaskier startles a little and Geralt’s afraid he’s in pain, but he’s looking at their joined hands and nodding to himself. “Mhm, okay, right,” he mumbles, and looks down at himself, doing a poor job of trying to lift the blanket and look underneath.

“Don’t do that,” Geralt scolds, and brushes Jaskier’s hand away from himself. “Be still.” 

Jaskier pouts at his sudden severe tone. “Rude. I don’t even know your name.” He takes both of his hands from Geralt, and folds them over his chest. 

Geralt isn’t sure what to say at first. The doctor had said Jaskier might forget some things, and there was no head trauma, but maybe there’s been a mistake? “Uh, it’s Geralt,” he says, “I’m your husband.” 

Jaskier’s wounded frown turns into the kind of grin he reserves for a brand new guitar. “My _husband_!” he squeaks, his voice breaking, “Did you lose a bet? Did I _win_ a bet?”

There’s a cup of ice chips on the table, and Geralt realizes with a little embarrassment that he must have slept through the last nurse’s visit. “Eat these,” he instructs, and when Jaskier opens his mouth to talk again, Geralt glares at him. It works about as well as usual. 

Jaskier holds the cup in one hand and considers their joined hands again. “I’ll eat them if you tell me about our wedding,” he decides. 

Geralt sighs but nods his head slightly. Jaskier holds up his end of the deal, so Geralt begins. “It was five years ago. My brothers were my best men and your two best friends from college were yours, and Ciri was with us, and Yennefer got a certificate online so she could spend twenty minutes talking about all the embarrassing things we’ve ever done and that we deserved each other before she legally married us. It was a good day.” He thinks as hard as he can for what else to say. It’s not that he doesn’t remember it. He remembers it perfectly, the way Jaskier had looked in the late afternoon sun with a crown of wildflowers. He remembers the way Jaskier had tucked a buttercup behind his ear, and he looked like he’d fallen out of a fairy tale. 

“You’re the one who tells it right,” he sighs. Jaskier watches him intently, sucking loudly on the ice. There’s dark circles under both of his eyes, bruise dark, and he’d probably scream if he saw his hair right now. But he looks so happy, unbothered by the current situation, not even curious why he’s in the hospital in the first place. “Here,” Geralt pulls his wallet out of his pocket and flips to the picture of their wedding day, Eskel and Lambert on his left, Essi and Valdo on Jaskier’s right. 

Jaskier gasps and looks closely, before tapping Valdo’s face. “That man’s fashion sense is a joke.” Geralt rolls his eyes, and Jaskier taps Eskel. “Is this one also my husband, by any chance?” 

Geralt purses his lips and puts his wallet away, and Jaskier _giggles_ , higher pitched and a little more maniacal than usual. 

“I like your voice,” Jaskier says out of nowhere. “I don’t remember your name, but I think I’m in love with you.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes and kisses Jaskier’s knuckles. “I love you too.” Jaskier _beams_ , and a little bit of water dribbles from his mouth. Geralt wipes it away, and taps the side of the cup, still mostly full of ice. “C’mon, you’ll feel better.” 

Jaskier pops another chip into his mouth obediently. “I feel great,” he says, still talking with his mouth full. “You're my _husband_. I’m so lucky. I won the husband lottery! You’re so _hot_ , did you know that?” He’s not waiting for Geralt to answer him or even acknowledge him, which is actually not too different from normal. Geralt doesn’t even bother to follow along, letting Jaskier’s voice become a pleasant hum. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier waves his hands in front of Geralt’s face, _loud_. Geralt shushes him on instinct and tries to coax him to lay back against the sheets. “I _said_ I’m -” Geralt shushes him again, and when Jaskier continues he’s whispering, still loud but nowhere near shouting. “I said -” He frowns, his mouth twisting into an exaggerated frown. “I forget.” 

Geralt considers simply picking Jaskier up and getting into the bed underneath him, so he can hold him in his lap like a child. Like he’s done on those very few times Jaskier has truly felt like shit, wrapped up in a blanket and pressed as close to Geralt as physically possible. Sometimes he just held Jaskier like that, because he was sad, or just because they had a moment and they could. Jaskier shouldn’t pout like that ever, for any reason, and it’s possible that Geralt is having a delayed reaction to the idea of Jaskier possibly _dying_. Not for a long time and preferably at the exact same time Geralt does. 

“I love you,” Geralt says, _cheating_ , because he knows it will make Jaskier’s face light up again while he contentedly chews on ice for a few moments. 

“Geralt,” he slurs, his head flopped to the side. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Geralt says, reaching for the call button, “Do you need a nurse?”

“Nah,” Jaskier says, lightly slapping his hand away. “Stand up.”

Geralt stands. Jaskier hums, and continues. “Okay, turn around.”

Geralt feels his forehead wrinkle. “Why?”

Jaskier’s lip trembles dangerously close to a pout again, so Geralt turns around. “Now what?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for long enough that Geralt’s about to turn around again when he feels Jaskier’s hands firmly grab his ass and _squeeze._ His grip is disturbingly strong, even when Geralt makes an embarrassing squeaking noise and jumps an inch off the ground. “Husband lottery,” Jaskier says, satisfied, and lets go. 

Geralt sits down quickly. “Eat your ice,” he mutters and Jaskier does, chattering on and off occasionally. 

Some time passes, while Geralt pretends to listen, holding Jaskier’s hand and occasionally prompting him to take little sips of what’s now water. He thinks about closing his eyes, and then does, but when he registers that Jaskier has stopped talking for more than 5 minutes, he opens them again. 

Jaskier is asleep again, cup loosely held in one fist curled up towards his chest. His cheeks have a bit more color now, and he’s breathing evenly. Sometimes he hums a little bit of a song in his sleep, but Geralt got used to that years ago, and Geralt begins to allow himself to believe that Jaskier is _okay_. 

***

The next time Jaskier wakes up, he’s much more groggy and he properly recognizes Geralt, although he’s a bit hazy on the past twenty-four hours. Geralt is starting to think that maybe he just had a really weird dream, and he’s briefly thankful that he wasn’t the one on serious hospital painkillers. Jaskier absolutely would have filmed it and reminded Geralt of it in painstaking detail. Geralt simply pretends it never happened. 

Dr. Merigold returns to check in with Jaskier one more time, as apparently they’d had a lucid conversation before Geralt arrived. She glances at his stitches, and at the bandaging around his chest and finds them adequate, and says that a nurse will come in shortly to with Jaskier’s discharge paperwork and any instructions for aftercare. Mostly Jaskier nods, yawning occasionally, and somehow still smiling genuinely. 

“There’s still time for an exam, Mr. Rivia,” the doctor says kindly, as if she has no idea what saying something like that in front of Jaskier will do. Maybe she doesn’t, but they’re certainly not the first married couple to come into her ER. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, honey-sweet, “What does Dr. Merigold mean? Are you hurt?” The doctor probably thinks his concern is touching, but Geralt hears the implied murder for what it is. 

He means to say no, that he’s fine. “I...don’t know,” he admits, voice low even by his own standards. “I feel fine.” 

Jaskier looks at the doctor. “Dr. Merigold, you’ve been so wonderful since I’ve been here, truly the best time I’ve ever spent in a hospital. Could I just trouble you for one more thing?” She looks a little confused, but she nods. “Ah, wonderful. Geralt, my husband, my dearest heart, can be somewhat of a stubborn fool sometimes. Would you mind making sure he’s in good health so that when I murder him, I know for sure it’s my fault he’s dead?”

Dr. Merigold blinks a few times, eyebrows raised into her hairline. “Um, yes, I can, with his consent, but uh? I think I have to tell you, legally, that if he dies in the next couple of days I have to tell the police.” She looks like she’s in on the joke. It’s always cute when people underestimate Jaskier. 

Geralt consents, because he will absolutely regret it if he doesn’t. The doctor completes a quick exam while she and Jaskier gossip about something that happened on the latest episode of Drag Race. Geralt is embarrassed to realize he can follow along with their conversation. “All good,” she says finally, “But please do call your doctor if you feel any unusual pain later. And you,” she points to Jaskier, “No killing your husband.” Jaskier crosses his fingers over his heart. “Make him wait on you for a few days though, definitely,” she says with an evil smile. 

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and squeezes it gently. “I won’t let him out of my sight.” 

Geralt’s looking forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> please visit me to yell into the void [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


End file.
